Kishore Singh: Cooking my goose, well

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When we were first married, my wife laid out some rules, the sum and substance of which was that while she would be the public face of our kitchen, I would do the daily chores that involved the cutting and slicing, the sluicing and boiling, the peeling and chopping, the washing and drying. Since I enjoy a turn in the kitchen, I did not complain "" or at least not too much "" and was able to keep her in reasonable food.

I stewed apples when her brother came to visit, and stuffed them with mince. I made my mother-in-law chicken stew. I brought quiche from the stores, attempted to make cold cucumber soup (a disaster), did a liver roast in an onion wrap, and read recipe books with as much enthusiasm as murder-mysteries. From abroad, I smuggled in first an oven, then a hand blender, later a mixer.

At first, this suited my wife well, but soon she began to grumble. "Sarla," she said accusingly of her best friend, "says I don't know how to cook at all." "Which," I assured her, "is absolutely true," but this wasn't the response she was seeking, and so she pushed aside the lasagna I'd specially made for dinner that night. The next morning when she rejected the cheese omelette too, I knew something was troubling her. "It is," she said with a heavy heart, "my job to handle the kitchen and the cooking."

So, sometimes we got food, at most times there were limp leftovers, but in any case there was always toast and eggs. Besides, both of us needed to lose weight anyway. Till, finally, my wife declared, "We need to get a cook."

At first she wouldn't let the cook do the cooking, which was a waste; later, though the cook did the daily grind, my wife insisted on cooking for parties "" with mixed success. If something went wrong, the cook was blamed; if it turned out well, my wife took the credit. To add to her culinary myth, she wrote a cookbook with borrowed recipes, advised some restaurants on food festivals, and banished me from the vicinity of the kitchen.

But when her workload increased, and clashes between the cook and her became inevitable, my wife yelled at me, "Why can't you at least supervise the cook?" Our household had now grown considerably, so besides planning menus with the very temperamental cook, I had to order the groceries, check the fridge for food getting spoilt, ensure the supplies of meat and fish in the freezer did not run out, keep an eye out for diminishing colas and sodas, check the children's school tiffins, and step out of the way when people came home, so my wife and the cook could bask in a kitchen run well.

And so it would have been but for a celebrity chef launching her book at a restaurant earlier this week. On her agenda was a spaghetti dish to be made by "" surprise! "" volunteers from among her friends from the media. What with one thing and another, I found myself being volunteered along with another hack. It was easy enough to saute and steam and cook and garnish, and soon enough 35 plates of spaghetti carbonara were up for delivery. The diners, it appeared, approved it; my wife, however, pursed her lips in distaste.

At home, she complained to the children that their father thought he was better even than the cook. The cook, upset at this turn of events, struck work and refrained from going anywhere close to the kitchen. Which is why, after a bull run in the office, I'm back to dicing and cubing, steaming and boiling in the kitchen. On the plus side though, at least I know what's for dinner tonight.